I left the corporate world four months ago. Now, theoretically, after cooking and cleaning and managing my two young children’s school events and appointments and all the other domestic necessities for a family of four, I have six hours a day to focus on my dream: becoming a published author.

What I have found instead is that this thing I’ve been chasing for over thirty years is not only harder than I thought it would be, but also innately changed from what it used to be. The revelation feels like a mid-life crisis.

I thought I knew what I was getting into. We have all heard about J.K. Rowling getting “loads” of rejections before finally getting Harry Potter published. I had done research on the industry and various publishing paths. I walked away so inspired from AWP25 (a major writing conference) and local writers’ events.

I think the first crack that appeared in this beautiful, shiny vision was when I lost a cute pencil case holding my favorite Japanese rollerball pens within the first hour at AWP25. I checked with the lost-and-found counter and building security several times throughout the multi-day event, refusing to believe that “my” community would simply throw it away—or worse, keep the pencil case for themselves.

Then the rejections continued pouring in. I’d already been querying literary agents to no avail before AWP25, but the ones that came in after hit harder.

Previously, I was submitting a novel about a first-generation immigrant trying to play the right political games to climb the ladder at tech companies. Two agents read the full manuscript and told me gently that while my writing was solid, the story wasn’t all that interesting. Looking back with a more critical eye, I could see what they meant. My book was, in fact, a memoir masquerading as fiction. There was much I’d envisioned but failed to execute.

This time around, I was submitting a medical memoir I’d written after nearly dying of sepsis at age thirty-five and being hospitalized for four weeks. It was way more personal, which meant the rejections felt more personal, too. My brain knew that these agents and publishers likely did not feel up to the task of representing my book. The industry probably isn’t interested in personal pain and suffering at a time when everyone is suffering and looking to escape from pain; it’s also very, very hard to get readers to care about a memoir by someone who isn’t famous. But my heart felt that no one cared about my life or this nightmare I’d survived. There hadn’t been so much as a paragraph in the local newspaper about my experience. I was told I didn’t have a case for a medical malpractice suit. The State Board of Medical Examiners didn’t think my OB/GYN was at fault in any way for being dismissive of my postpartum fever and pains. And now, no one wanted to help get my 70,000-word book out into the world.

On top of that, I was actively applying to jobs. For four months, I was receiving simultaneous rejections from agents, independent presses, and potential employers. Each response or lack thereof reinforced the message that I suck at writing, work, and life overall.

You need thicker skin, you’re thinking. On good days, I agree. On good days, I have ideas and stories trying to fight their way out of me. I tell myself I can work on the next manuscript while waiting to hear back from publishers on this one. I know it takes time and effort to build up a fanbase and a writer community, and I still have this vestigial mindset from a “gifted” childhood where I expect things to come easily without working for them. That I’m still open to self-publishing, which would enable me to spread awareness of sepsis. That spreading awareness, potentially saving someone from suffering the same fate, is still my top priority for this book.

Ugh, but we writers also want other people to think we’re good at this, don’t we? I also want readers to find my words insightful and inspirational. I want them to go, Wow, I’ve never thought about it that way or That’s interesting information or That strikes a chord, even if it’s just over one sentence out of thousands. I want them to feel invested in my experience and wellbeing.

On bad days, which composed most of this month, I don’t think I’m particularly good at this. I write painfully slowly and spend more time procrastinating than actually doing it. I don’t know when to elaborate on a point and when I am being heavy-handed. I don’t want to be in a community of writers. I am not even half as literary, imaginative, or epic as the authors I admire most. My style is best described as “everyday, with the occasional funny or poetic turn of phrase.” And I am finally coming to accept that that may not be enough.

ChatGPT was the final nail in the coffin for me. I’m so dismayed by the flood of AI slop washing over LinkedIn, Reddit, Facebook, and Instagram. The other day, someone made a very obviously ChatGPT-generated Facebook post promoting a household product to a group of over 40,000 moms. Several members gushed over the “amazing writing style.” Even though a few others replied to point out that this was generative AI, it wasn’t enough to un-break my heart. I think about those studies showing that the average person not only struggles to differentiate between poetry written by humans vs. AI, but even prefers the latter—and I wonder, What’s the point?

When I read The Catcher in the Rye in middle school, I took to heart that notion about how a good book makes you feel as though you could be friends with the author. I believed that if I wrote in a straightforward, accessible manner, people would naturally gravitate to my work. It didn’t happen with my novel, it hasn’t happened with any of the short stories or essays I’ve submitted to online magazines, and it isn’t happening here on Substack. At this point, I don’t even know if I am capable of good writing or why I wanted to be a writer. Maybe what I truly want is respect and admiration from others, and writing was merely my vehicle of choice to procure it.

Every morning once my kids are out of the house, I should be excited to work on a draft—but I’m not. Instead, I just want to play music. Maybe this means the stories in me aren’t meant to be told through books. I’m now exploring alternative paths for sharing them, including but not limited to songwriting. I know everything is hard, takes real work and commitment, and can be tainted by AI. Additionally, a worry lurks in the back of my mind that once I reach a certain level of skill or achievement in another area, I’ll be disillusioned again and come to the same conclusion as I have with writing. But I have to try. I want to believe that I have a calling.